


Another kinda fight

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Sex, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: That night at the CDC, Daryl is drunk and can't sleep. He's restless, and when he's restless, all of his body cells long for a fight. Before, he had Merle for that, but thanks to a certain cop, Merle's not available.As he wanders down the halls looking for trouble, he happens upon that same cop; luckily, Grimes seems to know exactly how to deal with that restless energy.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Comments: 9
Kudos: 130





	Another kinda fight

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote se01 porn because of reasons. I needed a break from sharks, and I looked at some gifsets of baby Rick and baby Daryl, and there you go. Porn. 
> 
> Yes, this is all it is. No plot here.

In retrospect, maybe getting drunk on the CDC wine Jenner so generously bestowed on them wasn’t such a good idea as it first seemed.

Daryl feels restless. There’s a buzzing inside of him, making his whole body tingle with the need to release - somehow - perhaps to lash out with violence, to. Do something. Before, he used to have Merle to fight it out with, when both of them were too pissed to know better. It used to be, when the frustration-turned-aggression built up too much, they’d just go at it. There’d be fists flying and mostly missing, blood thrumming in their veins, insults and threats and words, meaningless and hurtful words, until they were both too exhausted to move a damn muscle and the aggression faded into the natural low-key animosity they seemed to operate on in their daily interactions.

But thanks to a certain sheriff, Merle’s not around no more, and Daryl’s left without an outlet for the agitation that always results from too much booze. 

He could go rile up that other pig, that Walsh bastard, but he’s not so sure he wants to; even drunk as he is, he can recognize when something’s too dangerous to attempt - when a guy’s too unstable to go near. It’s an art Merle never really bothered with, studying people. Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have ended up handcuffed to a roof in Atlanta. Or he still would’ve gone done something even dumber than waving a gun around and trying to act all alpha male around a guy who’s obviously batshit crazy. 

Because,  _ shit. _ Rick Grimes sure is hiding it well from that adorable family of his, but Daryl isn’t so easy to fool. He’s known from the start that Walsh was unstable, two steps away from blowing up most of the time, capable of maybe killing someone in a fit of rage; that’s easy for him to notice because it’s so damn familiar. Merle was-  **is** like that, too. Hell, Daryl’s daddy was just like Walsh, minus the badge, plus the drinking habit. Short fuse, the inability to accept that the world might not always give them what they want, the choice of violence as an appropriate response to not getting their way: Walsh has it all, has the  _ potential  _ to become  _ them, _ and so Daryl stays the fuck away from the dude. 

But the memories he has of his daddy, of Merle, the uneasy feeling he gets from being around Walsh, all that is  _ nothing  _ in comparison to what he thinks Grimes is hiding behind those baby blues of his. The guy is a madman, has to be; Daryl heard all about how he dragged the Asian into a whole-ass herd of biters, betting his entire bright plan on the assumption that the geeks would be fooled by the stench of rotting guts. Sure, his plan worked, but it was still crazy as fuck. And didn’t the damn cop ride into Atlanta on a horse like some wild west cowboy? Then he left Merle on that rooftop, but he went back for him even though he’d just found his wife and son, and who the fuck does that? 

And all the while, he’s been acting like he’s still the sheriff, telling them what to do, dealing with shit like he was made for the fucking apocalypse. He drew on Daryl when he thought Daryl crossed a line, and Daryl… Daryl stood down every damn time, because the way Grimes looked at him down the barrel of that shiny revolver of his, there was no doubt he’d pull the trigger if Daryl didn’t submit to his authority.

What makes it weird is the fact that he’s  _ not scared of Grimes, _ at all. He should be. Even wasted as he is, his head swimming in the clouds, he still knows there should be enough survival instinct left in there somewhere that he should fear the consequences of messing with someone like Grimes. But the only thing he feels when he thinks about that guy - the only thing he wants to acknowledge or even recognize - is this familiar restlessness, the need to go and scream in Grimes’ face until the self-righteous bastard screams right back, until there’s nothing but punches and bruises and ki-- no. Not that. 

He could do it. He knows where Grimes sleeps with the unfaithful little wifey and the kid. He could walk there, pound on the door, demand to talk. Make scene and then just take a swing. Grimes would respond to that. Daryl isn’t sure how he knows, but he does: Grimes would give back as good as he got, he’d deal blows and insults with the same deadly grace he shows when he kills geeks. He’s a damn deadshot with that gun of his; but in a brawl, Daryl’s got the advantage of experience, so who the fuck knows how it would end. 

If it would end.

_ Get a fuckin’ grip,  _ Daryl tells himself disdainfully. He’s thinking about fighting the guy who’s effortlessly established himself as the sole leader of their sad little group, and for what? Just to blow off some steam? That’s a dumb idea if he ever had one. Maybe he should go irritate Walsh instead after all. Would still end up with him beaten to a bloody pulp, but he’s reasonably sure Walsh wouldn’t kill him. Fucking Grimes’ wife is one thing, but killing a member of the group ain’t something Walsh would do… not without approval from Grimes. 

Nobody makes no sort of decisions without approval from Grimes anymore, it seems. Not even Daryl, and fuck it if he knows why. 

He’s tossing and turning on the too-comfortable bed in the single room he been occupying. Safety, it seems, isn’t doing it for him. There’s a half-finished bottle on the bedside table, and he sits up, grabs it, takes a generous swig. He’s not over-fond of wine, he’s a guy of simple tastes, cheap beer’s always been good enough for him, but he has to admit the wine they have here is top-notch stuff. Tastes like fruit juice, goes in like  _ this easy,  _ and then kicks in like a Goddamn heart attack, sudden and unexpected from something so mild. Instead of vaguely tipsy, it’s made Daryl actually drunk. Enough so that he can’t sleep. 

The room suddenly feels claustrophobic. 

_ Never shoulda come here, _ Daryl thinks, trying to concentrate on the label of the bottle he’s holding in front of his face. The letters blur in his vision, both because he can’t see this close without glasses and because he’s so pissed. Giving up, he sets the bottle back on the table and gets to his feet, only staggering a little before regaining his balance.

He considers taking a shower, but then remembers he already took one. His hair is wet and he’s wearing a clean t-shirt he found in the dresser. He had to rip out the sleeves and it’s still tight across the chest, but it’s no department store here so it’s gotta have to do. The sweatpants he found with it fit great, he thinks he might keep them for later. He may not get a better option: good quality clothes sure are easier to get nowadays when you don’t gotta pay for them, but the problem is, Daryl doesn’t think there’ll be much time for clothes shopping in the near future.

Not that it fucking matters. He’s got no reason to want to look good or anything. As long as it don’t fall apart on him and bare his ass to the world, he’s fine.

He makes a few wobbly circles around the room, hoping to walk off the excess energy bubbling under his skin. Predictably, it doesn’t work. He needs to destroy something: a wall, a glass, someone’s face.  _ Grimes’ face, _ he thinks viciously,  _ too pretty for his own good, what with ‘em fuckin’ baby blues. _

It’s not that he particularly hates Grimes, because he doesn’t, as confusing as it is. Yeah, so he’s still holding onto the grudge against the cop, for leaving Merle defenseless on that damn roof, but. The guy’s done what he thought was best, and, hell, Merle’s a dumb fuck anyway, he probably deserved everything he got and then some. No, Daryl doesn’t hate Grimes. He hates other things, though, things about himself which are inextricably connected to the man: things that he’s never going to admit to in the light of day. 

There’s no use kidding himself: any attempts to walk off his frustration inside the tiny room are completely pointless. It’s too small, too confining, there’s nothing worth breaking, nothing breakable, not the plastic-lined concrete walls, not the cups made of some other sort of plastic, everything in here is plastic, plastic, plastic. Artificial. Fake, like the sense of security that pulled the whole group into drinking and making merry as if the world outside weren’t still completely screwed. Maybe the hallway will work better; worst that can happen is Daryl will get lost and fall asleep in a restroom or something. He’s slept in worse places than that. At least it’ll come in handy when he wakes up to the inevitable killer hangover later. Puking his guts out always feels vaguely better if he’s not doing it all over himself.

The hallways are dimly lit and empty, but Daryl doesn’t suppose it matters as long as he doesn’t stub his toe on something, and he probably won’t because there’s nothing there but smooth floors. He doesn’t care about the place and its layout, he’s got no goal in mind when he heads out. Just, he needs to be in motion lest he explodes, so he stumbles ahead aimlessly with all the grace of a damn biter. Funny, how the alcohol’s made him careless and heavy-footed; so funny, in fact, that he laughs when he realizes his footsteps echo in the otherwise silent hall. If there were walkers about, he’d have been dinner the moment he stepped out of his room. 

Funnier yet: Daryl doesn’t realize he’s not alone out here until he literally  _ walks into someone. _

“Woah,” says that someone, startled, but no more so than Daryl is at meeting him here. He’d expected Rick Grimes to be fast asleep in the bed in his room, curled up next to his wife, pretending everything’s fine with his marriage; certainly not wandering about in the halls like a restless lunatic. Like him. 

Daryl doesn’t want to think about how that makes them similar. He doesn’t want to have anything in common with the fucker who handcuffed his brother to a roof and left him to die. The same fucker who now doesn’t budge an inch when Daryl shoves at him to get him out of his way; Grimes just stands there, frowning, taking up entirely too much space for someone so scrawny, someone who’s supposedly only just woken up from a coma. Daryl tries to shove him again, pushes against his chest and loses his balance when Grimes takes a sudden step back. He falls forward into the cop who puts his hands on Daryl’s shoulders to steady him.

“Think you had a bit too much to drink,” he says with a smile that seems somewhere between mocking and kind. It pisses Daryl off something fierce. He squints at the man, eyes narrowed, he seethes and swats at him to get off, to stop  _ fucking  _ touching him. He hates how Grimes is acting all friendly. They’re not friends, they’re never gonna be friends, no matter how fucked the world gets around them, so. He’d better fuck right off.

“You should sleep it off,” Grimes says reasonably, and yeah, Daryl doesn’t take  _ reasonable  _ very well when he’s drunk. He tries to shove at the man yet again, because  _ fuck him,  _ but all he manages to accomplish is that Grimes shoves back, presses him against the wall and holds him there.

“Get the fuck off me,” Daryl demands in a hiss. Grimes’ grip is like a vice on his wrists, just on this side of painful, possibly going to leave bruises if it lasts longer. Daryl feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, his whole body thrumming with  _ something,  _ his heartbeat too fast, too loud, too damn obnoxious. He wants to hit Grimes in that perfect face, he wants to retreat and run away, he wants to - he doesn’t know, fuck, he wants  _ things.  _

“Get off,” he grunts, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t keep looking at Grimes, he can’t risk drowning in the depths of those pretty blue eyes he’s sure are going to haunt him in his more risque dreams, he can’t. He needs to go.

_ Dixons ain’t cowards,  _ Merle’s voice in his head sneers at his feeble attempt to once again free himself from Grimes’ hold. Instead of incensing him further, the familiar taunt makes most of the fight leave Daryl with a shudder. It sounds almost the same as another,  _ Dixons ain’t queers, _ and he’s heard that one too, more times than he cares to recall or count. All his damn life, all he’d been told was what it was unacceptable for him to be.

Well, fuck this.

“Get off, or y’aint gonna like the outcome,” he warns in a low voice.

Grimes exhales loudly. His breath so close to Daryl’s face smells vaguely like the wine he had earlier, but also mint. Toothpaste? Probably. That’s the sort of guy Grimes is trying to be, he thinks, all proper and decent, brushing his teeth before bed, sleeping in the same bed with his cheating wife, pretending everything’s fine, pretending, pretending, until he won’t be able to pretend anymore and someone else ends up abandoned on a rooftop or shot in the head with ungodly precision.

“If I let you go,” the man says softly, “will you be tryin’ to hit me?”

There’s a threat in there somewhere, Daryl can sense it even with his eyes still closed. He shakes his head slowly,  _ no,  _ a promise he’s going to behave himself. All of the previous aggression has left him, it seems, even though he’s still restless, itching for a different kind of fight. He’s drunk, he’s drunk  _ stupid,  _ otherwise he’d never- he wouldn’t-

Grimes lets him go, steps back, and his posture relaxes. Daryl thinks if he pounced now, he’d have a chance to tackle the man, knock him down, he’d have a chance to  _ win -  _ but he knows he won’t do it. He also knows Grimes knows. He wishes he could call the cop naive for trusting so easily, but the fact of the matter is, right now, Daryl’s properly subdued, and all Grimes had to do was hold him still for less than five minutes.

“You really should get some sleep,” Grimes says, repeating the sentiment from earlier. 

Daryl’s no more amenable to the suggestion than he was at the beginning. “Ain’t tired,” he mutters. He opens his eyes, but keeps his gaze lowered to the ground. 

“Bullshit,” Grimes informs him, deadpan. “Haven’t seen you sleep once since I joined the group at the quarry. You’re always running about hunting or checking snares, keeping watch and all. When’s the last time you slept the night?”

“What’s it to ya?” Daryl asks, unable to keep hostility out of his voice. He didn’t think Grimes noticed him so much. Shit, he knew the guy was observant, even for a cop, but he just didn’t expect his comings and goings would be worth noting. Nobody ever paid that much attention to him before, not even Merle. Not unless it was to hurt him.

“Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together now,” Grimes replies simply. “We might be safe here, but eventually, the supplies will run out. We’ll have to go outside. Who knows when that’ll be. Might even be tomorrow. Wouldn’t like it if you got yourself scratched or bitten because you’re too tired to see straight.”

“Like y’all care if I live or die,” Daryl mutters, shrugging - and all of a sudden, he finds himself shoved forcefully against the wall, again, with Grimes’ hands clamped around his wrists just like before. 

“Don’t you ever say that to me again,” Grimes growls, baring his teeth, and it should be terrifying, should be, because this is the insanity Daryl’s seen hidden within him before, the same one that led to Merle on that roof. But it doesn’t scare him at all, not as much as he ought to be scared. 

Instead, it turns him on. Way to prove he’s completely fucked up.

“The fuck, man,” he hisses through gritted teeth. 

“I ain’t leaving nobody else behind, you hear me? Even an ungrateful damn brat like you,” Grimes informs him, and it sounds more like a threat than a reassurance: a  _ you’re never getting away from me  _ instead of  _ I’m gonna keep you safe. _

Daryl ignores the way it makes him  _ want  _ all too fiercely, and instead huffs an incredulous laugh. “Brat,” he spits out. “Man, I’m probly older than you. An’ I ain’t need yer concern, so y’all can fuckin’ shove it where the sun don’t shine-”

“Shut up,” Grimes says. “I don’t need this either, you know that? First Shane, then Lori, now you. I don’t need all this.”

“Yer the one holdin’ me captive,” Daryl reminds him. “So ‘less yer a pervert an’ yer actually gettin’ off on manhandlin’ me, ya better let me go. Ain’t gonna cause no trouble, promise.”

“What if I am?” Grimes asks, after a moment of silence broken only by the sounds of their breathing. Daryl chances a look at him, emboldened by the cop’s daring tone, and all he finds in Grimes’ face is a challenge. Does he dare take it? Does he risk it?

Fuck, yeah. He’s too drunk not to.

“Well ya gotta do better than that if ya wanna get anythin’ from me,” he says, wondering how the hell his voice’s got to be all deep and sultry like that. But it’s a good thing, because Grimes’ eyes darken and his grip on Daryl’s wrists tightens, and Daryl groans as his eyes slide shut all on their own. There’s a moment, just a brief one, when he thinks Grimes might back off, and he almost sneers at the man’s cowardice; before he does, though, there’s a mouth on his and a leg pressing between his thighs, and  _ fuck,  _ Daryl’s gone.

He always knew he was gay. It’s not something you need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce. Girls never did it for him, no matter how pretty. For years and years he tried to convince himself he was not anything, because for a Dixon, it’s either completely straight or completely dead, so Daryl never actually did anything with a guy. He fucked a girl or two when Merle shoved them his way, ‘cause if he didn’t, that would’ve been the same as coming out. He didn’t hate it, but he only got it up thanks to his imagination, and the girls let him fuck them from behind anyway. 

Thing is, he’s got no idea what he’s supposed to be doing with a man, and in the back of his mind, he’s terrified of what he is somehow becoming visible for everyone to see, and laugh at, and hate. But fuck that; it’s the apocalypse. What better time to indulge, right? Especially with Grimes’ tongue relentlessly licking into his mouth and his muscular thigh rubbing against the bulge in Daryl’s pants, there’s no damn way Daryl would be able to say no. He’s not positive Grimes would listen if he said no, too, and fuck, but the idea of being held down by force while the cop has his sweet way with him makes his cock all the harder.

There’s something wrong with his head to be turned on by that, but he just can’t bring himself to care about it right now. Not with the way Grimes presses him into the wall and grinds into him. It’s almost enough for Daryl to get off just on this, the frantic thrusts of slim hips against him, the grip on his forearms, the taste of Grimes all desperate and demanding in his mouth-

“Sonofabitch,” he curses when Grimes releases one of his wrists just to grab a handful of his ass and squeeze. It’s painful, the man doesn’t seem to care one bit about Daryl’s discomfort, and it makes spikes of arousal shoot up the entire length of Daryl’s spine. He hears the damn sheriff chuckle, and looks up at him with a glare. 

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a delicate princess,” Grimes mocks. His eyes are bright with lust, watching Daryl’s every move like he’s a predator stalking his prey. 

“Fuck you,” Daryl snaps, and he groans because Grimes chooses that precise moment to bite down on the side of his neck. He makes a feeble attempt to push the man away, not because he particularly wants to escape but just because his arm is free; he exhales loudly when Grimes just grabs it and then proceeds to hold both his wrists in one hand.

“What is it with you,” the man asks, staring him down with his damn blue eyes narrowed in a piercing glare, looking at him like he’s trying to read Daryl’s mind - and succeeding. “You want this or not? It ain’t about forcing you,” he grits out, and for some reason, it sounds more like a threat than if he was saying the opposite.

“How d’ya reckon,” Daryl says with a sneer, pressing back against Grimes’ leg to make sure the man makes no mistake about what’s going on here. He’s bad at words, he’s a hands-on approach sort of guy, he doesn’t know how to voice his desires without sounding stupid; but Grimes must’ve been a marginally better cop than he’s being a husband right now, because he gets it, he gets the unsubtle hint without any of it having to be spoken out loud. The hard cock pressed into his leg must be a dead giveaway.

“Good,” the man breathes, and captures Daryl’s lips in another searing kiss. 

They shouldn’t be kissing, Daryl thinks, this isn’t what this is, but for the life of him, he can’t push Grimes away. It feels too good: the tongue exploring his mouth, the leftover taste of wine and minty toothpaste, the way that Grimes unapologetically takes what he wants without so much as giving Daryl the chance to protest. Because Daryl made his choice already, and he made it known the moment he ground his hips against Grimes’, taunting him, challenging him into this. He’s trapped now, condemned, and fuck, but he’s enjoying the hell out of it all.

Grimes doesn’t waste any more time after that kiss. His hand boldly slides down the waistband of Daryl’s sweats and long, deft fingers wrap themselves around his cock. Daryl groans and buries his face in the crook of the man’s neck. He tries to move his own hands, to touch and explore and - anything, - but Grimes is still keeping his wrists in a tight one-handed hold and doesn’t let go. 

“You take what I give you,” he says in that incredible low voice, and Daryl huffs into his neck, but doesn’t protest. The grip of the man’s hand on his dick is perfect as he tugs firmly, stroking from tip to base and back to the tip at a torturously slow pace.

“Good?” The sheriff asks.

Daryl gasps out a confirmation, what he thinks is a confirmation, anyway; the ability to talk in intelligible words escapes him right now. He suddenly becomes aware that they’re in a hallway where anyone can potentially walk in on them. The thought of getting caught with Grimes’ hand down his pants causes a tremor to go down his spine, and in that moment he doesn’t even know if it’s because he likes the idea, or if it scares the hell out of him.

Maybe the latter, because he mumbles into Grimes’ skin, “Someone may see-”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Grimes says and silences any following protests by kissing Daryl again and again, and quickening the pace of his hand on Daryl’s dick. How can just a hand on his dick feel this damn good? His own is never like this, always too dry and too tight, fast and dirty like he only wants to get it over with. Maybe because on his own, he’d just been taking care of a physiological need; but here and now, in an empty hallway where anyone could find them, Grimes touches Daryl like it’s something else: more than just release, more than just a quick handjob between virtual strangers.

Grimes looks at him, looks at him even when Daryl averts his eyes and hides his face, and the intensity in his damn blue eyes is haunting. It’s like he can see everything, every thought Daryl is trying to hide, every desire he’s attempting to exile out of his mind before it surfaces. He smiles, kissing along Daryl’s jawline, before he lets go of Daryl’s trapped wrists and drops to his knees in front of him.

“What,” Daryl asks, but it ends in a drawn out moan when Grimes pulls his sweats down in a quick motion and leans in to lick along the length of his cock, shameless and bold like it’s something he does every fucking Sunday. He looks up from between Daryl’s legs, a cocky grin adorning his lips when he runs his tongue across them. 

“You wanna pull on my hair? You can,” he allows graciously, and Daryl didn’t think he wanted to, but now he does, so he slides both hands into the damp curling hair at the back of Grimes’ head, and tightens his fingers until he’s sure it must be painful.

Grimes only chuckles, though, and then swallows his dick like a fucking world champion in cock-sucking, and Daryl’s brain short-circuits at the feeling of the wet, tight warmth engulfing him. Grimes blows him like he’s got no gag reflex, and he makes those soft humming noises around his mouthful like he’s enjoying himself just as much as Daryl. He groans when Daryl thrusts his hips forward, and he releases Daryl’s cock from his mouth with a wet, obscene sound that actually echoes in the empty hallway.

“You’ll only get what I wanna give you,” he reminds Daryl in a raw voice, darker and coarser than before. It takes Daryl a second to realize it’s like this because Grimes took him in too deep, but when he realizes, he barely swallows down the whimper threatening to escape him. Fuck. This man is something else. 

“Will you be good?” Grimes asks, looking up at him with those piercing blue eyes, and Daryl nods, swallowing down the excess saliva in his mouth. He bites down on his lower lip and his fingers in Grimes’ hair tighten in anticipation. The man smirks again, wrapping a loose hand around Daryl’s cock, and he strokes it a few times before he takes it into his mouth again. He goes down on him too fast, too deep; his throat constricts around the tip like he’s gagging, but he doesn’t back down. He makes a sound that can’t be mistaken for anything other than pleasure, and Daryl mimics the sound with a groan of his own. 

“Fuck, man, yeah,” he hisses, and with how good Grimes feels on his cock, it’s so fucking difficult to concentrate on not moving his hips. He wants to cradle the back of Grimes’ head and fuck his mouth, he wants to come down the damn cop’s throat, he wants to fucking  _ ruin  _ him, but he can’t because Grimes will stop if Daryl tries. He may be the one getting serviced, but he’s the one being used here, and Daryl wants to mind, but Grimes presses his tongue to the underside of his cock, curls it just-so, and suddenly the pleasure gets to be too much, too hot. Grimes pulls away, but it’s too late, and with a breathy moan, Daryl finishes all over the man’s face. 

And damn, but Grimes is fucking pretty with Daryl’s come painting his pink lips and flushed cheeks, dribbling down his chin. He looks up at Daryl and, holding his gaze, he licks his lips. There’s something wicked in his eyes, a glint of something devious. Daryl’s dick gives a valiant twitch, reacting to the sight of Grimes on his knees, looking absolutely wrecked as he licks the filth from his lips like it’s the best damn thing he’d ever tasted. 

“Son of a bitch,” Daryl mutters with no real fire behind the words. He feels satisfaction well up in his chest, settle down in his tired brain, and he knows no brawl could’ve achieved the same result. With a start, he realizes his hands are still tangled in Grimes’ hair, and on a whim, he pulls hard enough to hurt. Grimes hums appreciatively and gets to his feet, following Daryl’s unspoken command; it’s like now that he made Daryl come, he got his fix of power and he doesn’t mind being manhandled in return. The idea that the ball is now in his court makes Daryl’s head spin. Grimes looks at him with those stupidly blue eyes of his, and Daryl claims his mouth in a kiss even hungrier than before. 

“‘m gonna fuckin’ wreck you,” he growls against the man’s lips, and Grimes makes a low sound in the back of his throat. 

Daryl has never been on his knees for another man before, but he goes down willingly, kneels in front of Grimes and fumbles with the opening of Grimes’ jeans.  _ Who the fuck wears jeans so late at night, _ he thinks, and he gives voice to his frustration in another growl. The zipper and button eventually give out under his ministrations and Daryl doesn’t wait another second to pull the man’s pants down along with the boxers he’s wearing underneath. 

Grimes’ cock is bigger than his own, not much bigger, but enough that Daryl notices as he wraps his hand around the thick shaft. Instead of making him feel ashamed, it makes him dizzy with desire, and he doesn’t understand what’s going on with him: he just came, but already he can feel tendrils of lust forming in his abdomen, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he gets hard again. 

He doesn’t waste a minute; he strokes the cock in his hand the way he would stroke his own, quick and firm, and Grimes’ hands slide down to his shoulders, holding on for dear life like he’s gonna collapse without the support. Daryl takes it as a compliment and he leans forward to lick a long stripe from Grimes’ balls to the tip, marvelling at the taste of him. It’s mostly salty and a little sour, like sweat, with a bitter undertone, but there’s something addictive in the way this combination feels on Daryl’s tongue. He closes his eyes and moves his head, opens his mouth wide and swallows down as much of Grimes’ length as he’s able. He gags as soon as he feels the tip hit the back of his throat, and he back off, but only enough to not choke. He looks up at Grimes’ face and meets his eyes, hooded and dark with unconcealed desire, and he rolls his tongue and sucks at the taste pooling on the tip of Grimes’ cock. His eyes slide closed when the man’s hips stutter and that fat, amazing cock is pushed deeper in his mouth; he moans around his mouthful, needy and fucking wanton, and he tries to take more, but gags again.

“Slow down,” Grimes whispers urgently, fingers clutching at Daryl’s shoulders. “Fuck, you’re doing good. But slow down.”

Daryl groans around his cock and Grimes lets out a breathless moan, and Daryl can imagine those pretty blue eyes rolling back, and he turns his full attention at the cock in his mouth. He realizes he can’t deep-throat it like he wants to, doesn’t know how to go about it without choking, but there are shitton other things he can do and he wants to try. So he pulls off and begins exploring instead. He swirls his tongue over the tip of Grimes’ cock, lapping up the beads of pearlescent liquid gathering there. The taste is stronger than before, and muskier. Makes him all the more hungry for it. He takes just the tip into his mouth and suckles lightly, hoping to coax more of that taste from it, and it’s filthy and devious, but fuck if Daryl cares about what it makes him. Not right now, not when Grimes digs the fingers of one hand into his skin. Daryl looks up and sees that Grimes has his other hand over his mouth to muffle the noises he’s making; he’s not exactly succeeding, which Daryl counts as a win, because this is still a fight. He slides his mouth further down Grimes’ dick and then back up, pressing his tongue to the vein on the underside, and he feels the length in his mouth twitch. He brings up a hand between Grimes’ muscular thighs -  _ fuck, those thighs, _ he wants them wrapped around his head sooner or later - and he cups the heavy testicles. Grimes moans at the touch, honest to God moans, and knowing he’s the one eliciting this sort of reaction makes Daryl’s head swim. He makes a needy noise of his own and redoubles his efforts, sucking harder and massaging Grimes’ balls with just the tease of his fingertips.

Grimes’ hips begin to move in short, shallow thrusts he can’t seem to contain, and Daryl lets his mouth go slack to let that thick hard cock fuck him, greedy for it, so damn eager. 

“Fuck, fuck, yeah, knew you’d be so good at this,” Grimes says, the words slurred together in a breathless, low groan. He moves the hand from Daryl’s shoulder to the back of his head, grasps at the short strands of hair, and it stings but Daryl doesn’t mind, he lets Grimes guide him to do what he wants; a couple more thrusts, rushed and irregular, and then Grimes stills, and Daryl’s mouth is flooded with his come.

And fuck if he doesn’t swallow all of it like a thirsty slut. The taste and scent of Grimes fills his senses, and it makes him a different kind of drunk. A  _ better  _ kind.

Grimes breathes heavily, slumping against the wall as he recovers slowly from his orgasm. He briefly runs his fingers gently, almost reverently, through the hair at the nape of Daryl’s neck. He shudders when Daryl releases his cock from his mouth with a wet sound, and he quickly straightens. He tucks his spent dick back into his pants and zips up, and Daryl takes as his cue to get up. He fixes his sweats and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s not sure if he should do or say something. What’s the protocol for this? Should he thank Grimes or something?

He hasn’t yet made up his mind before Grimes speaks: “Next time,” he says, and his voice still has that scratchy quality from  _ choking on Daryl’s cock,  _ “I’m gonna fuck you.”

Daryl narrows his eyes. “Next time? What’cha think yer wife’s gotta say to that?”

Grimes scoffs. “Dunno. You can ask her if you wanna. Right after she’s done fucking Shane.”

“Ah,” Daryl says, understanding dawning on him. “That what this was, huh? Revenge for wifey doin’ the dirty behind yer back.”

“Maybe,” Grimes replies, shrugging. “Does it matter?”

He’s still got a splatter of Daryl’s come on his cheek, and his pretty cock-sucking lips are red from all they’ve done, and fuck it. Daryl’s got to admit, the man has a point. He got off, Grimes got off. Who cares  _ why  _ it happened? Sex is sex. Sure, it was the best orgasm of Daryl’s life, and he’s gonna jack it for months thinking about how fucking pretty Grimes looked on his knees with come all over his face, but it doesn’t really mean anything. At the end of the day, Grimes is still married to a woman who, yeah, cheats on him with his best friend, but that’s just how marriages are. And Daryl? Daryl is some backwoods hick who just happened to be willing to suck his cock because he was drunk and worked up. They’re not suddenly lovers or anything dumb like that. Hell, they’re not even friends.

Daryl’s not sure why the thought makes him sad.

“You should get some rest, take advantage of the fact we have real beds,” Grimes says after a moment. He puts a hand on Daryl’s shoulder - directly over the marks his fingernails made before, but it’s probably not on purpose, - and squeezes. The touch is fleeting and casual, but despite what they just did together, it makes Daryl uncomfortable. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Yeah,” Grimes says. “Okay. Good night.”

Daryl doesn’t reply, just nods. He doesn’t move. Neither does Grimes. Daryl lifts a hand to start chewing on his thumbnail, a stupid nervous habit he never grew out of. He should just go. Take another shower. Finish the wine he’s got in the room. Find another bottle. Hell, find two! Instead, he’s standing here like a stupid prick, waiting for fuck knows what, and he’s getting all worked up over nothing again.

He looks up when Grimes says his name.

“What?” He asks around the thumb in his mouth.

Grimes pushes Daryl’s hand away from his face and cups his chin with his own hand. He pauses, giving Daryl time to protest, and when he doesn’t, Grimes moves in for a kiss that’s completely different from the kisses they shared before. It’s slow and sensual, but firm, full of promise and something Daryl can’t identify.

Then he draws back, ending the kiss way too soon or maybe not soon enough, and Daryl blinks. When did he close his eyes? He frowns as he studies the man in front of him. Grimes has an unreadable expression in his face, but he’s not looking at Daryl. He seems to be deep in thought. Finally, he exhales audibly, shakes his head and turns as if to leave. He coughs to clear his throat.

“Good night, Daryl,” he repeats, and he sounds more like his normal self when he says it. If somebody from the group looked at him right now, they’d never guess what the damn ex-sheriff had been doing less than fifteen minutes ago. Well, except for the cum stain on his cheek. He still hasn’t wiped that off. Does he not know it’s there? Daryl feels like he should tell him, but… he doesn’t want to. He likes the thought of something of Grimes returning to his cheating wife with Daryl’s cum on his face. It’s a bit like his own revenge for all the derogatory remarks she ever directed at him at the quarry camp.

So he doesn’t say anything. He just watches Grimes’ retreating back. When the man disappears around a corner, Daryl smiles to himself, a small, crooked smirk tugging at his lips. He just knows he’s gonna have the best night’s sleep in, hell, probably ever.

Getting drunk on that fancy-ass wine was the best idea he’s had since the dead started walking, he decides, and finally starts walking to try and find a way back to his room. 

Later, spread out on top of the covers on the too-soft bed, his entire body relaxed and tired out in the best way possible, he feels sleep finally begin to claim him. He says, out loud to the empty room: “Good night, Grimes…  _ Rick, _ ” and he smiles, burying his face in the pillow. He’s asleep within seconds, and maybe he dreams of baby blue eyes, and maybe he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure everyone missed Rick giving Daryl a blowjob, because it's been a while since I last posted any filth. And this time, Daryl got to reciprocate! You're welcome. 
> 
> It was so weird referring to Rick by the surname all the time!
> 
> (I might write a sequel to this, with that "next time" Rick promised Daryl. Who knows. I don't. I never know when the mood to write dirty smut strikes me again.)
> 
> As usual, feel free to come shout at me at most--curiously--blue--eyes on Tumblr :)


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